Midnight Oil
by Jasque
Summary: Life as a private detective at French Investigations Agency has left Lachlan Gold a lonely man... that is until a certain azure-eyed woman took over the reins of the company.


A/N: This was for Rumbelle Showdown 2015 under the pseudonym 'Vincent'. Prompts were 'Ice truck killer!AU', 'Ankle' and "As you wish". I wanted to go with the premise where Belle and Gold as serial killers, but that requires too much work, so this was born.

* * *

Soft light glowed from a cubicle and sound of furious scratching filled the dark office. Only the occasional beeping from the printer room accompanied the bleak atmosphere. A lone figure sat in the cubicle, lost in his world of scattered papers, numbers, and names. His writing that started off eligible and cursive was now a jumbled of chicken scratches and shorthand that only he could decipher. Red and blue ink painted his notes and lines ran across sheets of papers taped together. Lank hair covered the man's eyes and the light from his laptop cast severe shadows on his face, enhancing the grim set of his mouth and the lines on his face.

The man's train of thought was thrown off balance when his office phone suddenly rang, giving the already sombre place an eerie setting. A number he didn't recognise appeared on the caller ID while the blinking red light on the receiver—a reminiscent of the spastic, neon lights at an underground club he frequented once upon a time—demanded it to be picked up, like a wailing baby screaming at its mother. Seconds after being subjected to the flashing light, he could feel the early signs of a headache blooming in his temples. Growling, he grabbed the receiver and gruffly said, "It is eleven at night and this better be worth my time."

"Are you always this prickly towards your customers, Mr. Gold?" an undoubtedly feminine and familiar voice replied. Hint of amusement coloured the woman's voice, swiftly chasing away the headache and recent connections he just made in his investigation, connections that were instantly replaced with images of a certain brown-haired, azure-eyed woman who haunted his thoughts on a daily basis.

The sandy-haired man leaned as far back as he could in his office chair until his head peeked out the side of his cubicle and faced the glassed room not far from his tiny workspace. The room was dark but he could make out its occupant from the streams of light that bounced from the next building, basking said occupant in an ethereal glow. Even with the distance and the dim lighting, he could clearly see the brilliant colour of her eyes.

"Only to pricks with no sense of time, Miss French," Gold replied smoothly, giving no hints to either the hammering of his heart or the thrill that coursed through him at hearing her voice. Miss French smiled at him with eyes that twinkled of mischief and merriment and in response he flashed what he hoped was not a grimace. Few things in this world could cause a smile to flit across Gold's face in his fifty odd years, but ever since Belle French took over the management of French Investigations Agency from her father, he found himself frequently exercising his zygomaticus major.

"Don't overwork yourself, Gold. You've pulled an all-nighter every day since Monday and you definitely don't want me to put you on forced leave."

"Definitely not, Miss French," he smirked, "but this case won't solve on its own." Another smile tugged at her lips before both came to an uncomfortable silence. He could see the petite woman twirled a pen around her fingers with an indecipherable look in her eyes.

Lachlan Gold was not a conversationalist. He liked his private space and would drive anyone away if they dared invade his personal bubble. It resulted in him being ostracised and this made his life easier and safer, especially in his line of work as a private investigator. Despite his cantankerous disposition, he had a way with words, and he invested this gift into manipulating others—a sure way to gain the necessary information. His methods were always precise and calculating, but consequently, he was left drained and tetchy when it came to everyday social interaction. Due to this, he was relatively left in peace and few had the privilege to know the man behind the forbidding mask. Now however, he wished his real-life social-skills had not suffered as a result. Lachlan Gold was desperate in smothering this deafening silence between him and Miss French.

"May I know what caused the manager of this fine establishment to burn the midnight oil?" Gold blurted, letting his tongue ran without his brain. When the sloth organ finally caught up, Gold mentally kicked himself at his choice of words. Midnight oil, indeed. What a wonderful way to remind both of them that he has lived half of a century. Despite wanting to smash his head with a hammer, his stoic face betrayed none of his feelings.

If Belle French ever thought of Lachlan Gold as old, she never hinted on it. She only hummed in response before telling him that she was finishing some paperwork and browsing through online news, especially those related to the recent prostitute murders. She found the news fascinating and disconcerting, her interest with the workings of a criminal's mind had been the reason why she followed her father's footsteps. The police was finally certain they had a serial killer living amongst the Miami population and the media even gave the monster a moniker, Ice Truck Killer. The fact that the latter warred with each other on being the first to report the psychopath's slaughters did nothing to improve Gold's loathing of them.

"Aye, I've heard of it, but I'll admit that I don't know much about it. Never really got around to look into it, you know… with my workload and the recent injury." Gold silently cursed himself as he once again succeeded in reminding Miss French that not only was he an ancient and dusty being, but a lame one, too.

"How's your ankle? You never talked about what happened and were tight-lipped when asked."

There was a beat of silence before Gold swallowed the lump in his throat and broke eye contact. Safely tucked behind the flimsy barrier of his cubicle he ran a hand over his face before he answered, "I was running after an informant… didn't look where I was heading. A car ran into me and the next thing I remember was waking up in the hospital. There's not much to tell, really."

Gold was certain he could hear Miss French drumming her fingers on her receiver. If he braved himself to look at her, he could see her raised eyebrow and the sharp tug at the corner of her lips.

"You know you can tell me anything, Lachlan." There it was, the surest way for her to access the vestiges of his prehistoric heart.

"I know, Belle, I know."

The slip of calling her by her name was enough indication to the turmoil within him. Gold did not wish to be reminded of the real cause of his limp. Remembering it would lead to admitting his son—whom he spent fifteen years searching—hated him.

Quietness once again settled between the two.

"Let's call it a day, shall we? Walk me to the station? Reading up on the Ice Truck Killer is doing wonderful things to my paranoia. He has a thing for petite brunettes and I doubt my heels ca—"

"As you wish," he quickly cut off her ramblings as hints of protectiveness flowed through him at the mention of the serial killer's penchant for brunettes. He would fix the rift between him and his son as soon as he knew how, but right now Belle needed him, even if her request was an obvious attempt at a distraction. Like her father, she was as subtle as a flying mallet.

Lachlan Gold hastily put away his notes before walking up to the glassed room with as much grace as someone with a cane could. Offering the beautiful woman his proffered arm, they walked into the streets of Miami in companionable silence. If this was what burning the midnight oil would offer him, then he would gladly burn more just to walk beside his lady as her silent guardian.


End file.
